


The Ritual and What Came of It

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Peter Pevensie: /exists/, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark: I don't trust men and that's that on that. they're all either trash or exiled, Sansa: IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. IT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE!, warning for memory loss+magic/drug/herb/? use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: If he had to be honest, he would say he was terrified of the ritual, but as he had nobody to be honest with, he looked very much like every other man who had come to Winterfell for the first day of the month: eyes guarded, face clean, shoulders broad. Every one of them some breed of either arrogant or desperate. Peter wondered which he was. Perhaps both.That was faith, wasn’t it? Its own arrogance, its own desperation.
Relationships: Peter Pevensie/Sansa Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 83
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	The Ritual and What Came of It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VagabondDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagabondDawn/gifts).



> VagabondDawn, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I enjoyed writing it _immensely_.

The ritual was a mystery. The Queen claimed that it had come to her from the traditions of the North, these were oral traditions, mostly passed down from woman to woman, and could not be verified by maesters. There was a vague understanding that it involved something that could only be found in the North, from which Peter surmised it had to be some species of animal or plant, since it was summertime and there was naught else to distinguish the North from any other land. If he had to be honest, he would say he was terrified of the ritual, but as he had nobody to be honest with, he looked very much like every other man who had come to Winterfell for the first day of the month: eyes guarded, face clean, shoulders broad. Every one of them some breed of either arrogant or desperate. Peter wondered which he was. Perhaps both.

That was faith, wasn’t it? Its own arrogance, its own desperation. He had heard of the ritual twice, and both times, he had smelled the Lion, sweet and musky and altogether different from a lion. The first hint of home since he had arrived three years ago, and the first sign of mercy. He had never given up on receiving it, though he often doubted whether or not he deserved it. Now, here it was, and he was full willing to throw himself on it and see where it carried him.

Just now it carried him to a dark, cavernous place underneath Winterfell. Tall stone statues of dead kings. A stern-faced, grey-haired woman telling them that they were to go one at a time and silent into the dark corridor ahead, without weapons and without light. And that they would not remember what happened, afterwards.

Three years of life as a lone drifter had left Peter exhausted, but not numb. Hours slipped away, and he found that had expected impatience, but he hadn’t expected to enjoy the anticipation. For the first time in a long time, there was something in him that turned to more than mere survival. When it was finally he laid down his sword at the woman’s feet and walked into the darkness, it was a shiver of pleasure that went over him, not of fear.

He awoke, but he had not been asleep. He was already upright, sitting on cold stone, and his throat hurt, and he was crying. He didn’t know why. Iron bars in front of him, a torchlit corridor beyond. He wiped his eyes and tried to remember. Without a sense of time, all he remembered was the long walk in the dark, the rising hope. He had been smiling, and it made him feel a fool. Likely this was another cruelty in a long line of cruelties, the kind that queens and kings played in this world whenever they wanted. As angry as he was, he had to reserve a portion of it for himself: what had he expected?

A soft growl, behind him. His body moved before he registered exactly what the sound was, hand grabbing a bar and yanking him to his feet, turning in one motion from smooth to vicious, and—that was most certainly a Wolf. It could not be a wolf, or any other beast; beyond the size, there was a nobility to it that was undeniable. 

Joy struck him speechless at first, but then he knew what the polite thing was. He walked forward, shoulders relaxed, and offered it the palm of his hand. “Peter,” he said. “I don’t know if we’re from the same time. I was once called the High King, but at this point, I think that’s probably a laughing matter.”

The Wolf sniffed his hand, then dropped to the ground and rolled over, showing him a white-furred belly. 

There was crushing disappointment, yes, but also, it felt so good to be offered a moment of pure affection. These things came rarely. It didn’t do to spoil them. Peter went down on both knees and once and sank his fingers into that soft fur. It was wonderfully warm.

“You’ve forgotten how to speak?” he murmured. “I don’t blame you. I would have forgotten long ago, too. It’s that kind of a world. All Jadis, no—”

“She never spoke.”

The Queen looked younger than he expected, and every inch as powerful as any ruler he had ever seen. Any one detail about her could be definitive in another woman: the towering height, the elaborate steel-blue embroidery of her gown, the finely wrought silver crown, the auburn hair worn long and loose. But her eyes commanded all his focus. This was a Queen forged in worse than fire, and it showed. If she turned out a Witch, he wouldn’t be in the least surprised.

It was only when the wolf trotted up to the gate, whuffling for attention, that her gaze dropped, and Peter finally remembered he ought to get up and bow. His joints ached, vaguely. He did his best.

“A question,” said the Queen. Her voice was icy, but not hostile. Every syllable was distinct.

The tension ripened and narrowed to something that tasted familiar. He was on the back foot, but he was used to that. A lifetime of kingship, childhood of boarding schools, and a second adulthood of politics all made for thorough practice in bluffing. He didn’t move a muscle, but if this had been a matter of blades, it would have been time to start circling.

“Yes?” he said. Hearing himself, he thought for once detached moment: _Good. Steady._

Her left hand clasped her right wrist. She too was settling in. 

“What would you bring me, for a wedding gift?” she said. There was nothing of flirtation in it. If anything, it was imperial.

The answer took him only a moment. “Your brother.”

Her eyes tightened. “Nobody has spoken to him for the last year at least. Possibly more; the last one could have been lying.”

The trick was to never hesitate. If Peter's eyes flickered, she would see it. If he looked down, he was lost. He didn't know her enough to love her, and yet he was fighting with everything he had for a chance at home, if that was what she was. It was like a cavalry charge in deep fog, that perilous. He felt alive. 

“That doesn't change the answer," he said. "You could lay your hand on anything in this land, and it would be yours. No jewels or property I could give you would stand up against that, and a wedding gift should match the wife who receives it. Jon Stark would be enough, but I cannot think of much else that would. Your sister, perhaps, but seafaring was never my strength. I am not foolhardy enough to think myself capable of that.”

The wolf was not impressed. Its whuffling noises had gotten louder, and it pawed at the bars. The Queen, without looking, put her hand on its grey head, and the wolf nosed at it, then headbutted it, then consented to have its chin scratched. Despite everything, Peter had to be very careful not to smile.

“You are foolhardy enough to think yourself capable of being my husband,” the Queen said.

“I am not alone in that."

"You presume."

"Queens don’t waste their time on men they have no interest in, unless they are frivolous. And I know little of you yet, but I know you are not frivolous.”

“That,” said the Queen, “was almost a compliment. I wondered when you would try courting me properly.” Her lips barely moved, but there was something wry in her eyes. 

“I cannot win you by flattery, and anything aside from flattery is merely truth. Your kingdom is strong, your reign is prosperous, and your face is beautiful; I have eyes. I would have begun by telling you that, if I thought it would mean anything to you.”

“Is there anything could you say that would mean something to me?”

Peter paused to consider this, and found again that against all odds, he was truly enjoying this, not because he held the conversation lightly, but because of the opposite: here at last was someone who had also slept badly at nights when storms destroyed harvests, or when enemies pressed in on borders. And he found himself liking this queen. She was as cold as his own sister-queens had been warm, but whether they became blood enemies or blood itself, he felt a kinship for her. On instinct, he chose one of his own achievements, the one that had meant the most to him, and then found her closest equivalent.

“There are few places in Westeros where there are no girls in brothels,” he said.

Her lips thinned. “An avid patron, are you?”

“No, but I have been a soldier these three years, and I need clean clothes as much as any other man does. Besides that, a city’s brothels can tell as much a tale of its condition as its market or its walls. When my ship landed in White Harbor, I visited two different brothels, and one at each stop along the way to Winterfell. There was a clear pattern: all of them are full of women. The youngest I saw must have been perhaps eighteen. I did not ask.”

"Southron men are dirty,” the Queen said dismissively. “What of it?"

“Men are men, and money is money. In this world, especially." She did not ask what he meant by _in this world_. That should have warned him, but it didn't. He went on: "It could not have been accomplished without your will, and it must have required a great effort on your part.”

“How do you know? Did you have brothels in Narnia?” 

“No," he said. "There were a cluster of small islands off our coastline..."

Then he fell silent. 

_In Narnia._ He had not spoken of it in years, and the name on her lips sounded so foreign. 

The ritual must have taken the name from him, and if it could take that, then what else could it have taken? If she knew the name, she must know everything else: the crown gained and lost, the doors opened and forever closed, the endings on endings on endings, and above it all, the impossibility of it that had made it so unspeakable. _In Narnia._ She must think him a fool of extraordinary proportions. He certainly did. He had walked into this, empty-handed and of his own accord, to have his secrets taken out of him without without even a bruise to show for it. No wonder he had been crying.

Yet she said it without sneer, and having lived the lives he had lived, he felt he would know it if there was even the faintest trace of scorn in her eyes. He struggled to remember what they had been speaking of, though he knew already that their rhythm had been noticeably broken. What _had_ they been speaking of?

"The Lone Islands," Peter managed to say. The Queen looked as if she was carved from stone. She was his equal for bluffing, and were it under less inconvenient circumstances, he would have admired it. As it was, he felt naked. With one final effort, he righted himself, and went on. "We conquered them to stop them from slave-trading. Had we allowed them to continue, their occasional attempts to kidnap our subjects would have eventually proven fruitful, and then it would have been outright war not only with the islands, but with the empire they supplied. A losing war. I thought conquest would be the most difficult part, but trying to hold the law in the islands was far worse, because the work never ended and the people was never satisfied. I imagine that retaining influence over brothels has the same wearing effect on the royal coffers, the army, and and the soul.”

The Queen said, slowly, “You believe in souls.” 

At once, too swiftly: “Yes.” 

"You believe in many things," she said quietly.

He could feel his heartbeat. "I have learned to, from long experience."

"How unnatural." Her voice was observational, but there was judgment enough in the words.

Peter could say nothing to that, and though his silence remained calmly untouched, he was anything but calm. Their rhythm had been shattered long before that silence. In the space of a minute, they had turned from dueling to torture: slowly and methodically she had pressed her hands into him, her skin against his raw places, and he hated himself for flinching. It was not his first time; he should have known better. He felt the color rise to his cheeks. If he had been a couple lifetimes younger, he might have cried.

Much to his surprise, she looked away first, down at the stone under his feet. When she locked eyes with him again, hers seemed to hold a true question, rather than a provocation, for only a moment. He felt some of his shame drain away.

"I did not revive the ritual for the sake of cruelty," she said, and she seemed to be saying it with as close to softness as she was capable of.

After a moment, he said, "Why, then?"

There was a split second's hesitation before she replied. He caught it. It made him think that perhaps this answer would be the truth.

"Because," she said, "no matter how powerful or beautiful a woman becomes, no matter how intelligent or how strong, she can never cure her own body of its own fragility." She said it with more frustration than grief, as if it were a puzzle she had wasted time in trying to solve. As though she chose not to see it as a tragedy first.

He tried to think of comfort. "Men, too, are easily killed."

There was a touch more ice in her when she said, "I am speaking of marriage."

This time, he looked away, briefly, by way of apology. "Then that was a foolish thing for me to say."

"Yes," she said. She said it without rancor, possibly even a touch of humor, but it was a long moment before she spoke again. This time, her voice carried with it a certain finality, a certain weight. She had come to a decision.

"I cannot give you what you are seeking," said the Queen. "If I could, I would send you to your home at once. As it is, I have nothing you want, and I cannot marry you only to wonder what day you will finally discover the right door, if such a door exists. You would make a tolerable king consort, but I have enough troubles without bearing the public disgrace of a lost husband. You understand."

"I do." He truly did. And he would accept the rejection—he had expected it—but he could not leave her now while she misunderstood him. 

He already knew that if they never saw each other again, if it was back to cleaning muck off other men’s armor and riding under lordless banners and all the thankless small things between, he would still come back to this conversation. He would keep it carefully tucked away in his head. On cold nights, with naught but brown and grey all around him, it would flash vivid, like one of the tiny crimson flowers from Stormness head that Lucy used to pluck and preserve between the pages of a book. He knew it must end, but he did not want it to end like this. 

He knew perfectly well that it was not right to press on after she had as much as told him he was done. He could not help adding: "You would not bear the disgrace of a lost husband on my account."

The Queen took it well. She was matter-of-fact. "You are only attempting to marry me because you believe it is an order given to you by your lion-god. If you could leave Westeros, you would."

"Firstly, no. It is not..." It was terribly difficult to explain Aslan to someone who had never met him. Nigh impossible. "Your father and mother, may they rest in peace, were they good to you?"

Her eyes sparked a warning. "Yes," she said evenly.

"And if you were desperate and alone in the world, and then you became certain that they had, beyond the grave, pointed in the direction of a man, would you not at least investigate him?"

"Of course."

"That is what I am doing."

"No, that is what you did. Through visiting brothels, and whatever else. Marriage is not an investigation; it is what happens after all conclusions have been irretrievably made."

Peter found himself groping for the right words, like a man in a pitch-black cavern trying to find his way out. He knew how he felt, and he knew it was solid. Expressing it, though. That was another matter.

"I do not think I will ever make it back to Narnia,” he said, slowly. It hurt to hear, even in his own voice. “Or England. Narnia is no more, or at least not as it once was, and I was told this, and I refused to believe; I could have still had England, if I did not turn to dark magics that I knew would poison me even before I laid hands on them. I was greedy. Westeros is punishment."

"But your lion is merciful, sometimes, you said.” She said it simply: no attempt at either comforting or goading. “If you could go, you would. You said so."

"There is nothing keeping me here right now. But even if I am cast out of other worlds, there may still be a place for me here, a place I have not yet found. We—I feel we could marry. There is something in it that..."

He had honestly never had so much trouble in either of his lives telling a woman that he liked her. Probably because this ran deeper and stranger than that, and had very little to do with whether he liked her at all. There was solid rock beneath his feet and he knew it was worth building on. He respected her; he understood her; he wanted more time with her. If he had to die on a Westerosi battlefield, he would prefer that it was under her banner. These things tasted of marriage.

She waited, not unkindly, while he sought the finishing words.

"A wife is family," he finally said, "and I would not leave family behind."

The Queen was silent. For all that they had been looking into each other’s eyes intently and at length, he could not make out the color of hers. Possibly green.

"It would be wisest if you left me behind,” she eventually said. “If you tried to drag me along, I would make myself an inconvenience to you."

"You would find a way to kill me, I know," Peter said, almost affectionately. "But I would not take you from your home to make a prison for you out of mine. You know that, too, if you know anything about me."

"I do," she admitted.

“You know everything.” It was not an accusation; it was his hands spread wide and empty. _I have nothing left to give, and my defenses are no more. Do what you will._

Not for the first time, her silence was heavy with thoughts, and he felt reassured by the thought that she had truly heard him, and was truly considering what he had said. It took concentration and skill and good instincts to shoot words back and forth thick and fast as arrows, but it took a different level of thoughtfulness for her to to visibly ensconce herself in the counsel of her own head. The verdict, he hoped, would be worth waiting for.

At last, the Queen spoke. She spoke with measured deliberation, as if for emphasis. He didn’t need it. He was already hanging on to every word.

"One hundred and fifty-seven," the Queen said. "That is how many men have undergone the ritual for me. Most of them I dismissed after the first few truthful answers. Many after the very first. Only a handful ever made it out of the herb trance and into an unaltered conversation with me, and out of those, you are the first man who has not tried to lie, not even once. There is a perfect match between the herb-forced answers you do not remember giving, and the answers you just gave."

"Perhaps the other men attempted lies because they did not fear you enough." The words came out lightly, but he could feel how intently his eyes sought hers.

"No.” A whisper of wryness behind the eyes. “Most of them feared me more."

"What does that make me, then?" he asked.

"Exquisitely mad, I think." She said it slowly, and dryly, and with something almost like amusement or affection.

Peter smiled. "That was almost a compliment."

He could have sworn she almost smiled, herself. "This is our first courtship. It is fitting."

"Will we have more than one?"

"That is up to you." She slipped her hand into the voluminous folds of her skirts, produced a set of keys, and unlocked the barred door which was set into the metal grate. 

Peter was free. He did not move. 

"The second courtship, in tradition, is the betrothal gift,” said the Queen. “You have suggested one that I would readily accept. According to custom, you must retrieve the gift yourself, without funding or aid from me or any other person."

If anyone was familiar with long and hopeless quests, it was Peter Pevensie. In fact, he was so familiar with them, that the thought of a new one actually cheered him up. "I will try to return before midsummer with Jon Stark in one piece.”

“Jon Snow. Bastards do not inherit their father’s names.”

“In Narnia, there are no bastards, only daughters and sons.”

"Narnia is no more, and yet you continue thinking and acting and even speaking as you think a Narnian should."

"Yes." It pleased him, being able to say that out loud with such certainty. It was a reminder to himself: he carried Narnia, or it carried him, until death. Beyond death, if he had his wishes. 

She studied him. He would never be able to decide whether her eyes were green or blue or grey. He did not mind being studied by her, when he knew he was doing the same.

"Forever?" she said.

"Yes." Suddenly, the small comfort of it swelled up into a childlike, almost overwhelming gladness and relief. Forever, yes. _Forever._ He carried within who he was all the seeds of the homes that had made him. He would find good soil one day. Maybe he already had.

The ice that had once spiked the Queen’s voice and shielded her eyes was utterly gone. If this had been a matter of blades, it would have been time to loosen the buckles of their armor and clean their weapons in companionable firelight. There was almost something domestic in it.

Far down the corridor came the sound of a squeaking hinge. The Queen stepped back and looked towards it, and the profile against a halo of torchlight burned itself into his memory. Beauty, yes, but more vitally, this was a woman who would leave her fingerprints on his life, one way or the other. He should at least know what she looked like. 

She made some oblique gesture with her left hand, and the door screeched shut again.

"I was supposed to be at a council meeting half an hour ago,” she said, by way of explanation. “You have made me late.”

"I would say that I am sorry, but apparently honesty is my one outstanding virtue, so I had better not.” He stepped out of the cell. Up close, he could see that the two of them were roughly the same height. He could see that her ruddy hair was neat, but it could still use a comb. He could see that she had taken care, with powder, to conceal the bags under her eyes. The closer he got to her, the less she looked like a statue, and the more she looked like a queen at work. It wasn’t that he wanted to kiss her, or even touch her; knowing a little about her past, and witnessing the discipline with which she kept her body and face in check, he knew no good would come of it. Not yet. But he was drawn to her, nonetheless.

She took a step towards him. The torch flame lit every bit of her face even as it warmed his left cheek. Midsummer was a long way away.

Down the corridor, the door creaked open again. Neither of them looked away.

“That is your door,” the Queen said. “And she will give you back your sword.”

Peter would not leave her with those mere practicality for parting words. He chose a good truth, instead: “I could have stood here all night, Queen." 

He did not venture to put the possessive _my_ in front of _Queen_. The sentence preceding it meant that he didn’t have to.

"Sansa,” she said. The sibilants in her mouth were soft and sharp all at once. The sound of it was not at all like a straight line, it was full.

He repeated her name instead of goodbye. "Sansa." So much possibility. It made him feel very young and very old all at once.

One last look, and then he turned and walked away. He did not look back. That was for endings, and this was not an ending.

It took Peter all evening to procure what he needed: maps, provisions, furs. He got his horse re-shod. He told nobody where he was going or what he had seen. He did happen upon other men who had stood in line, more than once, but none of them particularly wanted to speak about their experience and he looked mild and understanding when they said it had been a shameful waste of their time.

It was sunset, and he was just outside the city gates when the wolf trotted up to him. He slid off his horse and indulged in a long bout of wrestling and scratching and petting and emptying his mind of miscellaneous thoughts. Finally, he gave it a scrap of dried meat, and took a piece for himself. The wolf curled up next to him as the horse began to graze.

"I am not allowed aid," he told the wolf. 

It yawned, and then kept chewing.

After a while, he mounted his horse.

“If I fail this second courtship on your account, I am going to be dreadfully cross," he called down to it, and then nudged his horse into a trot.

The wolf trotted alongside.

"Good wolf." 

Night was beginning to fall. Peter was ready.


End file.
